The Josharons are a tribe of walking, talking fox-people. They are widely considered to be the first inhabitants of Rainbow Valley. The Nibe Tribe is the oldest of the three clans.
The Nibe Clan is generally regarded as leaders among their people. Some historians claim that the Nibe are the most pure-blooded of the Josharons, for their genetics have remained true to their primogenitors’ blood.
The Nibe have two tails and all the normal characteristics of a Josharon. Their fur is shades of brown, gray, black, red, golden, and white with stripes, spots, and random patterns. They walk on two legs, and the tallest among them is just over five feet.
They are the everyday hardworking self-starters. Homes in Nibe villages are usually built from wood.
Males of the Nibe usually wear loose-fitting breeches that reach to their knees, allowing their long, slender ankles and feet to be free. The breeches fit snugly around their two tails, and they wear a tunic with a bright sash that typically signifies their heritage.
Females of the Nibe wear massive lengths of bright fabric wrapped around their bodies, from head to ankle. It is unseemly for females to display their tails, and they are kept wrapped close to the legs.
She’s wrong, but I can’t tell you what’s wrong with her. She doesn’t fit in Carlisle, but I’ve the feeling she won’t fit anywhere. Her story’s unlike anything I’ve ever heard before.
The first time I saw this lunatic of a woman, she was sitting in my favorite booth at the White Raven. I knew she didn’t fit the second I laid eyes on her. The people here in Carlisle are strange, but not that strange.
The mad rocket was wearing robes, like some kind of Jedi. She’s just the right height too. Not too tall, not too short. She probably can buy jeans off the rack.
I didn’t want to talk to her. But she wouldn’t leave me be. And before I knew what was happening, she’d dragged me into this peculiar one-sided conversation that I couldn’t walk away from.
She started in on her story, and I sat transfixed until she finished speaking. I didn’t want to care about her story, but she made me do it anyway.
She’s wrong, but I can’t tell you what’s wrong with her. She doesn’t fit in Carlisle, but I’ve the feeling she won’t fit anywhere. Her story’s unlike anything I’ve ever heard before. So I’ll write it down. But that doesn’t mean I believe her.
I need a place to keep track of everything the Storyteller tells me. And this site is it.
I just like a good story, I guess. That’s what I’m telling myself, even as I write this entry. Not sure if anyone will ever see this little corner of the Internet, and maybe that’s for the best. But I’ve got to find a place to write all this down.
The deeper I dig, the deeper it goes. And my mind is too full to make sense of it all.
Getting the first book out helped. But my editor thinks I’m mad. I’m not sure I disagree with her either.
But it is what it is. I’ve got these stories to tell, and that’s what I’ll do, even if no one believes me.
Bless. I sound just like her.
I don’t know why the Storyteller found me at the White Raven, and I don’t know why she thought I’d care what she had to say. Somehow I got into this mess, and I won’t be satisfied until I understand why.
So from here on out I’ll be keeping track of what I notice about the Storyteller here. I’ll post when she does things that stand out. I’ll post notes when she tells me her wild, impossible stories. I’ll post the bits and bobs that I can glean from her crazy imagination. And maybe someday it’ll all come together to make one big picture.
I doubt it. But you never know what might happen. And I don’t care what she says; every story has to end eventually, even hers.